Icarus Drowning
by unicornesque
Summary: "Sometimes you can look at someone and feel like you're about to jump off a cliff." In a world where love is considered a disease, Éponine can't wait to be cured. However, just three months before her scheduled procedure, she meets a boy named Enjolras, whose dangerous ideas make her question the quiet society that she lives in, and whose burning touch makes her question herself.
1. Feathers and Glue

**Notes:** Hi, guys! Welcome to my new story. This is an AU of Delirium by Lauren Oliver, but you needn't be familiar with that canon to understand what's going on here (however, I still recommend reading the series if you haven't already, as well as Lauren's other books, because her writing changed my life). Comments, suggestions, and constructive criticism would be very much appreciated. This fic is an extremely belated birthday present for Anna loveholic198 on Tumblr, with all my adoration and gratitude for the amazing friendship and support. I hope you like this, babe, and, no, I'm still not going to watch Supernatural. Enjoy!

* * *

**Full Summary**

Decades after the last great war that wiped out a third of the global population, civilization is concentrated in the scattered cities that survived the bombs, separated by electric currents and barbed wire from the unregulated wasteland known as the Wilds.

The world's governments are now aware that the most terrible enemy is the fickle nature of human passions. "Love is a disease, but the good thing about diseases is that they can be cured," says the Book of Shhh, and so it is mandatory for everyone who turns eighteen to undergo the procedure that will render them immune to amor deliria nervosa and its inevitably fatal effects.

The cure offers safety and stability, and Éponine Thénardier has been looking forward to it all her life. However, as her eighteenth birthday approaches, she meets a boy named Enjolras, whose dangerous ideas make her question the quiet society that she lives in. But it's the way his touch burns her skin that makes her question _herself._

* * *

**Chapter One**

**Feathers and Glue**

* * *

Autumn fell through the air in ropes of cool and waxy light, dripping like honey from the red-gold leaves and pooling on the curve of Éponine Thénardier's lips as she lay on the damp, sweet-smelling grass. She opened her mouth and caught this glow, letting October fizzle on her tongue until it burst and dribbled down her chin, sloping over her neck and spreading to her outstretched arms, her cotton-clad stomach, and her knee-sock-encased legs, covering her entire body in the sullen radiance of early afternoon.

She was seventeen years old, three months away from the cure and determined to enjoy sensation while it lasted— not that you couldn't feel anything after the procedure. The five senses would still be fully operational, according to the Safety, Health, and Happiness Handbook (twelfth edition), but the thing inside you that derived satisfaction from sight, smell, taste, sound, and touch would be gone forever. The Book of Shhh stated that numbness was peace.

In a sudden fit of mutiny, Éponine thought to herself that she had never felt more peaceful than she did at this particular moment, with leaves in her hair and autumn colors in her eyes and the burble of the nearby stream running through her veins like a song. _Could I really give all this up? _she wondered. _Isn't it too high a price to pay just so I can avoid the deliria?_

She started to panic, her throat closing up and her palms sweating. She pulled herself into a sitting position and retrieved her copy of the Book of Shhh from the messenger bag she'd carelessly dumped on the grass. Her hand trembled as she turned to Psalm 24.

"Lord, help us root our feet to the earth and our eyes to the road," Éponine read aloud. "And always remember the fallen angels who, attempting to soar, were seared instead by the sun and, wings melting, came crashing back to the sea." The wooden rhythm of the prose steadied her, calming her wildly fluttering heartbeat. Gradually, her breathing evened out, and she closed her eyes and recited the last lines of the passage from memory. "Lord, help root my feet to the earth and stay my eyes to the road, so that I may never stumble."

The turmoil receded, leaving nothing but a vague ache in her chest. She reflected on how quickly her mood had changed— how she'd been so happy one moment, and so terrified the next. _This is why you need the cure, _she scolded herself in the darkness of her shut eyelids. _So that you will be free from confusion— so that you will be constant._

Not to mention that she would be safe from the deadliest sickness of all time, the reason the cure had been invented in the first place.

They said it took away your capacity for rational thought. They said it caused paralysis and fever. They said it made you go mad before it finally killed you.

Éponine personally knew two people who had gotten infected with amor deliria nervosa— her former classmates, Combeferre and Courfeyrac. A few months ago, they were caught kissing behind the gymnasium, both already in the advanced stage of the disease. Because of the urgency of the situation, their procedures were moved up despite them not being of age— however, instead of submitting to the cure, the boys escaped into the Wilds. No one knew how they managed to get past border patrol, but they now existed to their peers as a cautionary tale.

In the wake of the scandal, President Javert of Deliria-Free France had come to give a speech at Éponine's school. "See how they destroyed themselves?" he railed to a student body still reeling from shock. "They threw away brilliant futures to live like savages with the rest of the Invalids. They might even be dead now— and, in all honesty, death would be kinder. That's what love does. Beware."

A harsh bell rang in the distance, signaling the end of lunch period. Éponine opened her eyes and got to her feet, smoothing down her pleated black skirt and slinging the messenger bag's strap over her shoulder. She hugged the Book of Shhh to her chest, finding comfort in the slight weight, and hurriedly walked back to the school building. She felt a pang of regret at having to leave this beautiful glade that was her favorite place, but she quickly squashed it down.

_After the cure, there will be no more pangs, _she told herself. _No more pain._

Cosette Fauchelevent was waiting for her in the yard, a solitary golden-haired pebble in the midst of the flow of students trickling to their respective classrooms. She smiled at Éponine as she drew near, and the other girl nearly apologized for leaving her alone with no one to spend lunchtime with. Cosette was ostracized at school because of her mother. Fantine Tholomyes had undergone the procedure three times, and, each time, it had refused to take. There were people like that, people who were unlucky enough to have a natural affinity for the deliria.

After the third failed operation, ten years ago, Fantine had been sent to the Crypts, a prison-slash-mental-health-facility located on the outskirts of Paris, where all terminal cases rotted away. Her young daughter was promptly fostered off to Jean Fauchelevent, who had been a childhood friend of Fantine's and was the only man willing to care for a girl with such faulty genetics.

"A new student just arrived," Cosette told Éponine as they made their way inside the building, daylight succumbing to the hallway's sterile fluorescence. "His family moved here from Marseille."

"Ooh, a _Southern _boy," Éponine rasped, smirking a little. "How did you know?"

"I keep my ears open," Cosette primly replied.

Éponine's smirk widened. Over the years, Cosette had learned to use her undesirable status as a tool for acquiring gossip. Nobody spoke to her, so she listened to people speak to one another. "Good job."

"That's not all," Cosette continued, her tone low but excited. "Apparently, he's already eighteen years old, which means—"

"— He's cured," Éponine finished, her eyes widening. "Okay, _now _I need to see him. I hope he's in our class…"

She didn't have to wait long to find out. When she and Cosette filed into the lecture room, a boy she had never seen before was standing beside the teacher's desk, talking quietly to Monsieur Gillenormand, the formidable old Public Health and Safety professor.

The first thing Éponine noticed about the new student was the mop of golden curls that haloed his pale face and fell into his eyes. The windows shivered with afternoon light, blurring his slim figure at the edges and setting that shock of blond hair on fire. He'd rolled up the sleeves of his un-tucked white button-down, exposing his slender forearms as he slipped one hand into the pocket of his black pants and used the other hand to keep his gray school blazer in its casually draped position over his shoulder.

Éponine couldn't believe anyone would dare take such a haphazard approach to the uniform in plain sight of Monsieur Gillenormand, but the professor didn't seem to mind. That was one of the perks of being cured— the adults trusted you more.

As she neared the teacher's desk on her way to her seat, the new student's gaze met hers. It felt strange, this collision— it made time slow down. She resisted the urge to look away, staring impassively back at him instead, and something flickered in the depths of his blue eyes before he returned his attention to whatever Monsieur Gillenormand was saying.

Éponine released the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. As she gingerly negotiated herself into the space between the newcomer and the first row of seats, careful not to brush against him, she darted a surreptitious glance at the spot behind his left ear. There it was— the mark of the procedure, the small three-pronged scar.

It was the same scar that she herself would be sporting in three months' time.

The seat plan was alphabetical; Éponine's spot was in the back row, while Cosette's was in the middle. The two girls slid into their respective chairs, making faces at each other across the room while their seatmates pretended they weren't there. "It's not that they don't want to talk to us," Éponine had assured Cosette years ago. "It's that _we _don't want to talk to _them." _Her classmates had originally shunned her for being a scholarship charity case, and then for befriending the girl with the crazy mother, but Éponine thought they were all idiots, anyway. Cosette was the only one she could stomach.

But that didn't make it hurt any less.

_After the cure, after the cure, _Éponine chanted silently, like a mantra. _You won't care anymore, after the cure._

Monsieur Gillenormand cleared his throat, putting an abrupt end to the bits of conversation and laughter rippling around the room. "I trust that you all had a pleasant lunch," he said. "We have a new student joining us for the remainder of the year. I'll let him introduce himself, shall I?"

All eyes turned to the boy in question. He seemed completely unperturbed by the spotlight— when he spoke, it was with a half-smile and a relaxed drawl. "Good afternoon," he greeted. "I'm Nicodème Enjolras, but I prefer going by my surname, for obvious reasons." The class chuckled appreciatively. "My parents and I just moved here from Marseille. I turned eighteen last month, so, yes, I'm cured. My interests include debate, tennis, motorcycles, and political theory—"

Monsieur Gillenormand coughed. "Young man, did you say _motorcycles?"_

Éponine leaned forward, thinking that the professor had a right to be skeptical. Not that there was anything inherently _wrong _with motorcycles— it was just strange for a cured person to make a point of liking them.

"Cheaper and easier to maintain than automobiles, sir," Enjolras replied. "My bike is my primary mode of transportation and it is thus logical for me to learn all I can about it."

"Fair enough," grunted Monsieur Gillenormand. "Anything else?"

"That's all, sir… Unless my classmates have questions?"

He embraced the crowd so easily— _my classmates, us_— putting a subtle distance between them and the authority figure in the room. Éponine was more wary than she was impressed; she knew a troublemaker when she saw one.

What she didn't understand was _why _Enjolras would attempt to cause trouble in the first place. He was cured— what more could he want?

A redheaded boy in the corner raised his hand. "Did it hurt?" asked Jean Prouvaire. "The procedure, I mean?"

Enjolras' smile faded. "Yes," he said gravely. A chill fell over the room. "They put you under, but your brain wakes up in the middle of surgery— as if it's trying to save itself."

Most of Éponine's classmates looked stricken. Jehan, who would be turning eighteen in three weeks, gulped, his gray eyes wide and his skin pale beneath his freckles.

Monsieur Gillenormand coughed again, more furiously this time. Enjolras shook his head, like he was coming out of a trance. "But, of course," he continued, "the true salvation is the cure. Since the operation, I've never been sad or afraid. And I'm now immune to the deliria, which ensures me a long and healthy life in a stable and productive society."

Despite this assurance, the damage had already been done. The class was uneasy, exchanging anxious glances and murmuring fitfully among themselves. Monsieur Gillenormand ordered Enjolras to take a seat, and, as the boy walked down the aisle, his eyes met Éponine's again. It was only a quick glance, but she glimpsed something in his sharp features that set off warning bells in her head— satisfaction, and promise, like he had big plans in store for them all.

* * *

The walk home from school was always long and tiresome. The city changed beneath the soles of Éponine's black shoes— first the smoothly rolling concrete sidewalks of the affluent suburbs, and then the slopes of the cement hills and the gravel of the main roads, and, finally, the unpaved, garbage-strewn paths of her own neighborhood. By the time she arrived at her house, the sky was tinged violet and the sun's rays had been dulled to wisps of tarnished brass. Her mother was perusing a magazine on the ramshackle front porch; Javert's stern face glowered at Éponine from the cover in the last vestiges of daylight. _A man on a mission, _the headline boldly stated. _DFF President discusses the future of the most powerful political organization in France._

"Hello, Éponine," Madame Thénardier said calmly. "Did you have a good day?"

"I failed, like, three exams," Éponine lied.

Madame Thénardier sighed. "Please do better next time. We can't afford full tuition if you lose your scholarship." She turned to the next page, and that was the end of the matter.

"Yes, Maman." Éponine wondered what it would be like to have a mother who yelled at her in real anger or sensed when she was sad— a mother who cared because her heart told her to, not because it was expected.

She went inside the house, the screen door softly clicking shut behind her. Monsieur Thénardier was kneeling on the kitchen floor, cementing a couple of loose tiles.

The empty kitchen stove caught Éponine's eye. "Should I make dinner, Papa?"

Her father nodded, hardly glancing up from his work. "Yes, thank you."

"What would you like?"

"Anything's fine, Éponine."

She put her bag on the table and surveyed the pantry's meager contents, her hands on her hips. The next batch of government rations wasn't due until Friday, but they could survive if they lived on soup until then. "Well, what's your favorite food?"

"Hmm?" Monsieur Thénardier _did _look up this time, scratching the back of his head as if the question had stumped him.

"What did you like to eat— you know, before you got cured?" Éponine prodded.

He stared at the wall in front of him. "I… can't remember." His dull eyes sparked, as if something was trying to fight its way to the surface. "Perhaps cherries? Although it escapes me why… But that was so long ago. I was only eighteen when the doctors cut into my brain…"

"Never mind, Papa," Éponine said quickly. "It was silly of me to ask."

As she chopped up the vegetables for the soup while her father returned to fixing the tiles, Éponine could hear Azelma and Gavroche talking in the next room— well, Gavroche seemed to be doing most of the talking, his high-pitched voice sporadically imitating the _whoosh _of airplanes, which led Éponine to surmise that he must have seen one earlier, flying overhead— while Azelma threw in the occasional murmured response.

Compared to her parents, her younger siblings had such distinct personalities; they were larger than life. What was going to happen to them in three months, when Éponine returned from the hospital a completely different person? She had no way of preparing them for it— she'd never experienced living with someone before and after they got cured. She could only hope that Azelma and Gavroche would be able to adjust to the change on their own.

_I'll ask R tomorrow, _Éponine decided. Grantaire was one of the few classmates who wasn't actively snubbing her or Cosette. His older sister, Maëlys, had undergone the procedure last year. He might be able to shed some light on the situation.

Madame Thénardier entered the kitchen, smelling like grass and dusty honeysuckle air. "The match committee sent us your schedule this morning," she informed Éponine. "You will be profiled next Saturday."

Éponine nodded. She dumped the chopped vegetables into the pot and watched them simmer in their liquid broth. The profile was a test that would allow the government to determine whom you were most compatible with, based on your achievements and interests. You and your approved match were free to marry anytime within two years after the cure. Éponine tried to determine which of her schoolmates she would be most comfortable spending the rest of her life with. She wasn't particularly keen on any of them, but she supposed that it would hardly matter to her once she got the operation.

The cure pointed you to what was right— what was logical. Everyone was born with original sin, with the tendency for the deliria. The cure took that away. It saved you from yourself.

* * *

Cosette dropped by after dinner, her cheeks rosy from the exertion of riding her bicycle all the way to Éponine's side of town. Éponine glanced at the clock on the wall, raising an eyebrow when she saw that it was a little past eight in the evening. What on earth could prompt Cosette to seek her out at such a late hour?

"You're cutting it awfully close to curfew," she remarked as they fled to the privacy of her bedroom.

"I can make it back before ten," said the other girl, sounding preoccupied.

"All right." Éponine perched on the edge of her mattress and tried to wait for Cosette to speak her mind, but she was considerably more impatient than her friend was, and so, finally, she couldn't stop herself from blurting out, "What's wrong?"

Cosette absentmindedly rearranged the knickknacks on Éponine's desk. Keeping her hands busy when she was tense was a habit she'd picked up from Éponine, in much the same way that Éponine had learned the value of silence from her. It was strange, how two people rubbed off on each other throughout the years. "I'm getting profiled next Monday."

"And that bothers you because?"

"Because… I don't know." Cosette sighed. "What if I don't like my approved match?"

"You're turning eighteen in a month," Éponine reminded her. "You won't care once you're cured."

"What if I _want _to care?" Cosette challenged.

Éponine's heart raced. This was dangerous territory. "Well, wasn't Oncle Jean happy with your stepmother before she died?"

"I don't know. Probably." Cosette shrugged. "I cried at her funeral, but he didn't."

"Because he's cured," said Éponine. "No more sorrow, right? The end of pain, forever."

Cosette sat down on the nearby chair, her blue-green eyes swirling with confusion. "You'll never guess what he told me just a while ago, when he showed me the letter from the matching committee," she murmured. "Papa got infected when he was fifteen. He fell in love with my mother— my _real _mother."

Éponine started. "Did Fantine love him back?"

"Yes," said Cosette. "He thinks that's why she fought so hard against the procedure, and why she was so unhappy with her approved match. The cure didn't work on Fantine, but it worked on Jean." Her voice caught a little on this last sentence, and she took a deep, steadying breath. "It was the _way _he talked about her, Éponine. He sounded so clinical, telling me about this woman he was once in love with. It was like he could barely remember her."

Éponine thought about her own father then, on his knees in the kitchen with a trowel in his hands, attempting to recall what it was about the taste of cherries that had delighted him so much. "Maybe it's easier to forget something when you don't love them anymore."

"I don't want to forget my mother." There was a defiant set to the other girl's jaw. Éponine didn't understand how a person could look so brave yet so wounded at the same time. "I'm never going to see her again. I need to keep her with me, somehow."

"You can't go around saying things like that," Éponine argued. "Without the procedure, you'll get infected and you'll die. That's stage four— physical and emotional paralysis, and then death. Only the cure can save us. And if the wrong person hears you, you'll get taken away. You— you might even end up like Fantine."

The silence seemed to last for hours, with Cosette furrowing her brow and Éponine twisting her fingers into the bed sheets, anxiously waiting for her friend to come back to her senses. At last, Cosette nodded, some invisible curtain slowly drawing itself over her features.

"The most dangerous sicknesses are those that make us believe that we are well," she said, quoting Proverb 42 from the Book of Shhh. "You're right, Éponine. We are born with original sin. We need to be cured."

"Yes," Éponine fervently agreed. _Safe. We need to be safe._

Cosette still seemed troubled, though. She tore away from the chair and sat down beside Éponine, the mattress shifting under their combined weight. She rested her head on Éponine's shoulder, and the other girl put an arm around her waist.

"I'm already beginning to forget," Cosette admitted in a small, tentative voice. "I know that my mother sang me to sleep and made me pancakes in the morning. I know that it was almost sundown when the guardians came and took her away for good. But I can't recall how her eyes looked, exactly, or what she smelled like, or the way she smiled. All that I have left is the last thing she ever told me before she was dragged into the black van."

"What did she say?" Éponine asked, horribly intrigued despite herself.

"She hugged me on the curb outside our house," Cosette replied, dazed and lost in memory. "She held me so tightly that I almost couldn't breathe. And she whispered— so softly that at first I thought she was praying— 'I love you. Remember. They cannot take it.'"

* * *

Fantine's last words to her daughter echoed in Éponine's mind long after Cosette had gone home. Éponine lay in bed, the lights off and the blanket thrown haphazardly across her knees. Her eyes were open, fixed unseeingly on the dark ceiling.

Would she be able to say something like that to Azelma and Gavroche, before her cure? _Should _she say it, if only because they would never hear it from her again? Or would that be a cruel thing to do— to leave scars like the one Fantine had left on Cosette? It had to be easier to forget someone if you thought they never loved you. You couldn't lose what you never knew you had in the first place.

Because she was thinking about the cure, her thoughts inevitably turned to Enjolras and what had transpired in the classroom earlier. He had sown the seeds of dissent, and part of her suspected that he had done it on purpose. She resolved to stay far away from him and his schemes.

Éponine Thénardier closed her eyes and fell asleep, and dreamed about mothers bowing their heads in prayer and schoolboys setting the world on fire.

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	2. Once You Have Tasted Flight

**Notes: **Thank you for the reviews, follows, and favorites! I just wanted to inform you all that Monsieur Dubois has been changed to Monsieur Gillenormand, because I've decided to keep the number of OCs as low as possible. I hope that's not too confusing or frustrating for anyone! And, to answer a couple of questions, I'm aiming to keep this fic on the short side so it'll probably run for about ten chapters, and all I'm borrowing from Delirium is the core concept and a few plot points. The actual story itself will be a bit different. For those asking about Enjolras' first name, Nicodème is the French form of Nicodemus, which means "victory of the people." So I thought it was very fitting :) Thanks once again for reading, and please let me know your thoughts on this update!

* * *

**Chapter Two**

**Once You Have Tasted Flight**

* * *

Tuesday was cold, wet, and miserable. The sky cracked open like an eggshell, spilling silver over the Parisian streets. Éponine showed up to class drenched in rainwater, strands of dark hair plastered to her forehead and her school shoes squelching with every step that she took.

A few of her classmates burst into outright laughter when she trudged through the doorway of the lecture room. Éponine retaliated with an obscene gesture, clapping her left hand to her right upper arm and raising that arm in a fist. Feuilly had told her once that this was called the Iberian slap in Madrid, and the banana in Rio de Janeiro. The street artist whom Éponine encountered nearly every afternoon on the walk home from school was full of interesting trivia like that.

She searched the classroom for any sign of Cosette, but the other girl's chair was empty. Enjolras held court in the corner, talking intently as Jehan, Joly, and Bossuet looked at him with worshipful eyes while Grantaire's expression bore a trace of skepticism— but he was listening, nonetheless. This particular group of friends had been acting more isolationist since Combeferre and Courfeyrac escaped, but Éponine supposed that it was easy for pretty boys with magnetic qualities to find their niche.

Enjolras glanced over at her, but she turned on her heel and marched back out into the hallway. The bell wouldn't ring for another half hour, but the corridors were already deserted. If memory served Éponine right, the grade school building would be a stark contrast at around this time, all loud shrieks and running feet. However, the teachers started discouraging rambunctiousness in freshman year and did not relent until graduation day. _To prepare you for life after the cure, _they said.

Once she reached the bathroom, Éponine removed her wet shoes and socks, attempting to mitigate the damage caused by the rain. She switched on the hand dryer and held her socks under it, wringing out excess water to the best of her ability. The tiles were cold under the soles of her bare feet, but the dryer blew hot against the backs of her hands. The warmth was a welcome relief and she soaked it up as much as she could, enjoying the way it seeped into her pores and melted the ice in her veins.

_I hope I marry someone rich, _she thought wryly. She'd have a hand dryer installed in every bathroom of her new house. In fact, her approved match might even be able to afford central heating…

Éponine heard a stall creak open in the midst of the dryer's roar. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled in pleasant surprise at the sight of Musichetta washing her hands at one of the sinks. "Hello."

"Hey," Musichetta said breezily. She was sixteen, but she possessed an aura of worldly sophistication that made her appear years older— as did her mane of glossy, magazine-perfect chestnut curls and the almost-feline look in her jade green eyes. "Have a nice swim?"

"Fuck you," Éponine cheerfully replied. Her socks seemed dry now— or as dry as they were ever going to get, anyway— and so she slipped them back on and got to work on her skirt, tugging the edges of the garment below the dryer. "You juniors think you're such hotshots."

"I might say the same of you seniors." Musichetta turned off the faucet and walked over to Éponine, who moved aside a little bit so that the other girl could dry her hands. "Tutoring later?"

"I'm good, thanks," said Éponine. Despite her young age, Musichetta was frighteningly intelligent— enough to be one of the school-assigned tutors for science and mathematics. She and Éponine had become good friends at the start of the year, when the latter had needed help with chemistry. "Joly and Bossuet flunked our last calculus quiz, though, so they'll probably turn up."

"Oh." Musichetta sounded less than enthusiastic at the prospect.

Éponine snickered. Joly and Bossuet's shared crush on Musichetta was one of the student populace's best-kept collective secrets, freely gossiped about among schoolmates but hidden from professors who might view it with alarm as a precursor to the deliria. "Do you ever get the feeling that they're flunking on purpose?"

"I _know _they are," the junior muttered. "At least they're almost eighteen. I can't wait for them to be cured and out of my hair." She rubbed her hands together one last time and left the bathroom, with a jaunty wave at Éponine.

The first bell rang. Éponine grimaced; her clothes were no longer wet, but they were still uncomfortably damp. She switched off the dryer and put her shoes back on, shivering in the cool air. It was going to be a terrible morning.

She exited the bathroom— and nearly walked right smack into Enjolras in the process.

"What the hell?" Éponine snarled.

Enjolras stepped back, widening the distance between them by a few inches. He held out his black overcoat to her. "I apologize," he said calmly, "but I thought you could use this."

"I'm fine, thanks."

"You'll catch a cold."

"What do you care?"

"The procedure takes away your ability to fall in love, not your ability to discern right from wrong," Enjolras reminded her. "It would be _wrong _of me to be aware that you are in distress and, yet, do nothing."

Éponine weighed her options. She didn't want to owe this arrogant newcomer a favor, but his coat looked invitingly warm and she hated being sick— hated the strain that it put on Azelma. Their parents did what was necessary— absolving her of household chores, petitioning the ration committee for medicine— but it was Azelma who provided the comfort that the cured Monsieur and Madame Thénardier could not, spreading mentholated vapor rub on Éponine's chest and making her tea. Azelma had a hard enough time as it was trying to pull up her grades at the public high school so that she could transfer to Saint Thérèse's, as Éponine had managed to do when she was eight years old.

Finally, Éponine took the coat from Enjolras. She draped it over her shoulders and was instantly enveloped in the clean fragrance of laundry soap, with a trace of citrus and powder. It was a remarkably sterile scent, unlike the smoke and bourbon that clung to Grantaire's uniform or the coffee and vanilla that she caught hints of whenever Combeferre had leant in close to speak to her in the time before he left. She wondered where Combeferre was now— if he was alive, if he thought it had been worth it.

"Thanks," Éponine muttered, not quite able to hide the resentment in her tone.

"You're welcome," Enjolras replied, more civilly than she ever could.

It seemed like the opportune moment to walk away, but his feet stayed rooted to the spot, anchoring hers as well. She didn't know where to look, so she looked at his face. She didn't know what to do with her hands, so she clutched his coat tighter around her shoulders. They stared at each other as rain beat against the windows, and in the grayish light of early morning his eyes were as piercingly blue as electric currents, sparked through with indecipherable meanings that echoed along the static of her pulse.

Éponine's thoughts were vague and scattered— almost ethereal. _There are turning points in life, _mused the part of her that was watching the scene from far away. _There are turning points in the way you see people. _It didn't even have anything to do with the disease— just the mere fact of a person's face, presented to you at a solemn hour, lain bare before you in all its vulnerability and all its triumph. Sometimes you can look at someone and feel like you're about to jump off a cliff.

This moment certainly felt like one of those turning points, there in that lonely hallway, with autumn's soft and tattered rhythms, with the translucence of his skin, with raindrops tangled in her hair. Éponine found herself wishing for a very peculiar, impossible thing— that she had met Enjolras before he got cured. She was suddenly hungry to know what he had been like before this cool and calm exterior— if he would still have followed her out into the hallway and given her his coat.

She would never be able to find out; the procedure was irreversible. It occurred to her then, in a tentative yet alarming sort of way, that this chance to know people— and to let people know you— was another thing that the cure took aside from your original sin.

The bell rang, startling Éponine from her reverie. She cursed under her breath because she— _they— _were now officially late for first period.

"Live a little!" Enjolras called after her as she all but ran back to the classroom. The amusement in his tone made her seethe. Living was a luxury for people who could afford it, who weren't scholarship kids and welfare brats. Éponine Thénardier just wanted to survive.

* * *

Her annoyance persisted throughout the morning, lasting well into lunch break. She and Cosette ate their sandwiches in the shade of the big oak tree in the yard, while Enjolras' group discussed politics on the stone bench a few feet away. Their current topic was the DFF— specifically, how Javert's organization was lobbying to lower the mandatory age for the procedure to sixteen.

Enjolras was facing away from Éponine; as he spoke, she glared holes into the back of his head. Grantaire caught her at it and smirked knowingly, wagging his thick eyebrows in her direction. Even if he wasn't aware of what had happened earlier, he knew her well enough to understand that self-righteousness tended to grate on her nerves. And there was really no one in the world more self-righteous than Enjolras in his element— even if it was the kind of self-righteousness that pulled people in, like a magnet.

"The Book of Shhh tells us to be vigilant against the disease, but it didn't say anything about putting our children's lives in even greater danger," Enjolras loftily declared. "Sixteen is too young. At that age, the brain is not ready for such an invasive procedure. In fact, I'd venture to say that the brain is not yet ready at eighteen. Twenty-five would be ideal, I think."

Bossuet nearly choked on his milkshake. "You want to _increase _the mandatory age? By seven years?"

"It seems reasonable," Joly said, nodding thoughtfully as he chewed on a carrot stick. "The average human brain is fully developed— or close to it— at around twenty-five. Perhaps this way we can lessen the amount of failed procedures."

Éponine had never wanted to start a food fight so badly in her entire life. In Paris, you couldn't get a decent job or be eligible for government housing and rations until you underwent the procedure. Raising the mandatory age also meant increasing the number of years wherein your cured family members had to support you.

"But _you _had the operation at eighteen," Jehan said to Enjolras, "and I don't think it's produced any negative effects."

"As far as you know," Enjolras quipped, and the other boys laughed.

A dainty hand waved in front of Éponine's face, obscuring her view. "Are you all right?" asked Cosette.

"He's been here five minutes and he's already got them acting like some sort of anti-DFF league," Éponine grumbled.

"They've always had… tendencies," Cosette said delicately. "Especially since Combeferre and Courfeyrac— you know— escaped."

None of them in their year could agree on what to call the stupid and unbelievable thing that Combeferre and Courfeyrac had done. Cosette was one of those who preferred the word _escaped, _which hinted at freedom, while some used _left, _which was more politically correct and implied all the things that were left behind.

Éponine was probably the only one who liked _ran, _because it encapsulated both freedom and leaving. They ran for it; they ran from it.

"That was the last straw for a lot of them, you know." Cosette had lowered her voice. "And I don't mean just Jehan, Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire. You can see it in our other classmates, too. We grew up hearing stories about people climbing the fence and going into the Wilds, driven mad by love. But it's different when it's one of our own— or, in this case, two. It makes you wonder what was so unbearable that they saw no other option but to join the Invalids."

Éponine shivered— not because she was still feeling the effects of getting caught in the rain, but because of the chill that ran down her spine. This wasn't the kind of thing that you talked about if you didn't want the guardians to come for you.

"The only evil is the deliria," she insisted.

Cosette didn't argue, but she stood up, tucking her half-eaten sandwich into her bag and wiping her hands on her skirt. "Library?" she suggested. "I need to finish my homework for Monsieur Gillenormand's class."

"I'll meet you there," said Éponine. "I have to ask R about… you know."

Cosette glanced at the huddled group of boys, and giggled. "Good luck tearing him away."

Once she was alone, Éponine leaned against the tree trunk. She tried to catch Grantaire's eye again, but didn't actually succeed until a few minutes had passed, when there was a lull in the boys' conversation. Grantaire stood up, squeezing Jehan's shoulder in farewell. The other boy smiled and patted his hand, and then Grantaire sauntered over to Éponine, collapsing to the grass beside her in a languid heap.

"What do you want?" he drawled.

"Tell me about Maëlys," Éponine said without preamble.

Grantaire shrugged. "What's there to tell? She was a hellion, always sneaking out after curfew and getting detention every other week. When she turned eighteen, they had to drag her to the hospital kicking and screaming. But she got cured and she's marrying her approved match in a few months, and all's well that ends well."

Éponine had vague memories of Grantaire's older sister before the cure— thick black eyeliner and unruly brown hair and haphazardly-buttoned blouse and the devil's own smirk. When Maëlys returned to school after the procedure, though, her face was scrubbed clean and she sported a neat ponytail and the proper dress code, and her smile was no longer the devil's but that of a serene, anesthetized angel. "Do you miss her?"

Wariness unfurled on Grantaire's harsh features. "Why are you asking?"

"I'm getting cured in three months," Éponine told him. "I need to know if Azelma and Gavroche will be okay."

"Hmm." Grantaire studied his blunt fingernails for a while, and when he looked up, his dark hazel eyes were distant. "I miss her stupid jokes. I miss the fights we had. I miss feeling like I actually have an older sister… but I won't miss it for very long."

"Oh, right." Éponine blinked. "You're turning eighteen two days after Jehan."

"And then Joly and Cosette next month, and then Bossuet, and then you." He tipped her a wry, lazy salute. "Éponine Thénardier, the last to fall."

She frowned, not liking the way he'd phrased it, like it was dying, like it was a bad thing. "My siblings will be fine, right?"

"The first week is the hardest," replied Grantaire. "After that, it gets easier. Sometimes they will call out for you in their hearts, but eventually…" He drew a deep sigh. "Eventually, they will learn to accept it, and then they, too, will be cured, and they will forget."

Éponine nodded slowly, her fears somewhat assuaged. Grantaire seemed to have adjusted to his sister's cure. Maybe it wouldn't be that bad when it was her turn, after all. "Thanks, R."

"Yeah, whatever." He grinned at her. "Can I copy your homework?"

"Fuck off," Éponine said with a laugh, getting to her feet. As she made her way out of the courtyard, the back of her neck prickled, like someone was staring at her. She glanced over her shoulder, just in time to catch Enjolras looking away.

* * *

Public Health and Safety was undoubtedly the worst class of senior year because it took place in the drowsy hour right after lunch. In addition to that, Monsieur Gillenormand was the peculiar kind of teacher who managed to be both boring and terrifying at the same time. Most of the students spent his lectures fighting to keep their eyes open, because all hell broke loose whenever he caught anyone dozing off.

After collecting everyone's essays on how to tell if another person was infected, Monsieur Gillernomand faced the class and adopted his gruff monotone discussion voice. "What do we know of Invalids?"

_Mama, Mama, put me to bed, _Éponine thought. _I won't make it home, I'm already half-dead._

Somebody else completed the verse, but out loud, in a sensual voice tinged with gold. "I met an Invalid, and fell for his art." Enjolras was reciting from his seat, his profile turned slightly in Éponine's direction so that she caught a trace of his enigmatic half-grin. "He showed me his smile, and went straight for my heart."

A few of the students shuddered. They were all familiar with "A Child's Walk Home"— that nursery rhyme had been whispered before bed, had been lisped at playgrounds, had been read with wide eyes in books of folktales. _Mama, Mama, help me get home, I'm out in the woods, I am out on my own. I found me a werewolf, a nasty old mutt. It showed me its teeth and went straight for my gut._

Monsieur Gillenormand nodded. "Invalids are hideous things. Monsters. We have every right to be wary of them. They fled from the procedure. They rebelled against the very same government that was trying to save them. Now they circle our borders, starving and infected, slowly wasting away from the deliria. The disease has rendered them violent and unpredictable, which is why we must remain on constant guard."

Bossuet raised his hand. "But they can't get into the city, can they, sir? On account of the walls?"

"The walls keep us safe, but not as safe as the cure," said Monsieur Gillenormand. "I'm certain that none of you have forgotten what happened last spring." His piercing eyes swept the room, lingering for a few uncomfortable seconds on each face. Most students looked away, but Éponine was one of those who stared stonily back. Even now, even after all this time, authority figures were still searching for leads on Combeferre and Courfeyrac. The entire senior class had been hauled in for questioning the day after the two boys breached the fence. No one knew anything— or revealed anything, anyway.

There were many things— many thoughts— that Éponine Thénardier would take to her grave, and one of them was this: She had seen Combeferre on the afternoon of his big escape. He and Courfeyrac were under house arrest, so Éponine was surprised to encounter the bespectacled, sandy-haired boy on her walk home from school. She'd taken one of the lesser-known detours, winding through the cramped alleyways that weren't policed by the guardians except for the occasional cursory sweep. She'd turned the corner and bumped into coffee and vanilla, linen and warmth, and her dark eyes had widened as they met equally startled green ones.

"What're you doing here?" Éponine had blurted out, taking a quick step backwards. The deliria became contagious with prolonged contact.

"I…" Combeferre had licked his lips nervously. "They gave me permission to go on a walk."

"Yeah?" She'd had been unable to disguise the skepticism in her tone, but her survival instincts kicked in— the less she knew, the better. "So I guess I'll see you and Courfeyrac at school soon." People usually got a few days off to recuperate from the procedure before resuming their lives— or, more accurately, starting anew.

"See you," he'd echoed weakly.

Éponine had stepped aside to let Combeferre pass, eager to cut this unexpected meeting short. However, instead of walking away, he grabbed her by the shoulders

"When it happens to you," he'd whispered, quiet and desperate in the dusk and the late spring, "you'll understand."

And then, before Éponine could figure out how to respond, Combeferre let her go and ran off.

Back then, she'd assumed that he was going to see Courfeyrac one last time before they were cured. It hadn't been until a few hours later, when the sirens rang, that she realized he'd been on his way to the walls. She hadn't told the guardians what happened, because her failure to alert them that Combeferre was out and about in the first place made her an accessory to the crime.

_Understand what? _Éponine wondered now. _What were you trying to tell me that day, Combeferre? The walls shield us. The procedure redeems us. You were the one who didn't understand._

* * *

Later in the afternoon, as she left the elegant palatial campus of St. Thérèse's, Éponine whirled around to glare at the owner of the long shadow beside hers. "Why are you following me?"

"You still have my coat," Enjolras reminded her, unperturbed.

Éponine willed herself not to blush, gritting her teeth against the embarrassment coursing through her system. "Oh, right." She'd tucked the coat over her arm and had forgotten to give it back to him. She did so now, holding it out, mirroring his position earlier in the hallway, only now they were on the concrete sidewalk and the sun was about to set. "Here."

"Thank you," said Enjolras as he put the coat on. The black garment contrasted sharply against his pale skin, and the high collar added to his air of effortless sophistication. He looked— quite dashing, as Cosette would say, although Éponine herself would never admit that out loud.

Éponine fully expected Enjolras to take his leave then and there, but, instead, he kept pace as she walked down the street. She was tall for her age, and the difference in their heights was miniscule, but the way he carried himself made him tower over her and other passersby.

"My house is this way," Enjolras said, catching Éponine's suspicious look.

"I thought you had a motorcycle," she muttered.

"It's being repaired. The master cylinder sprung a leak."

Éponine didn't even bother to try to understand. She let the silence draw out until they reached the Place Saint-Michel, which was home to several coffee shops and bookstores. Feuilly was plying his trade outside the Café Musain as usual, sketching charcoal caricatures for children and teenagers— in other words, the uncured, who were still interested in such things. His forte was actually painting, but the DFF had managed to convince the city council two years ago that spontaneous, colorful art inspired too much emotion in the viewer. So now Feuilly rendered the world in black and white.

After his last customer trotted off, he turned to Éponine with a smile. "Hey," he said, teeth flashing white against his olive complexion. "New friend of yours?"

"New classmate, actually," Éponine corrected him.

Enjolras stuck out a hand, the other one slipped into his coat pocket. "I'm Enjolras."

"Feuilly," replied the artist. "Forgive me for not observing the pleasantries." He held up his palms to show that his fingers were smudged with charcoal.

Éponine pointed to one of the sample artwork on display: a slender koi fish, with bold markings and graceful, rippling fins. "I like this one."

"Good," said Feuilly. "It's yours." He removed the sketch from its easel and handed it to her.

"Feuilly, no, I can't—"

"It's my way of saying goodbye." His smile turned rueful. "I'm turning eighteen tomorrow."

She stared at him in shock. She had known, of course, that it was everyone her age's turn this year, but she hadn't expected it to be so sudden, so soon.

"What are you going to do afterwards?" Enjolras asked Feuilly. No cured person could create new art or write new stories or poems. The inspiration— the drive— was simply gone.

Feuilly shrugged. "Well, I have to move out of the boys' home and apply for a house of my own. I'll probably look for work at one of the factories, or something."

"I may be able to help you out on the job front," said Enjolras. "I think there's an opening at my workplace. Shall we talk?"

The other boy blinked. "Um, yeah, okay, I guess."

Enjolras glanced at Éponine. "I'll see you tomorrow at school."

Recognizing a brush-off when she was on the receiving end of one, Éponine lifted her nose in the air and was about to storm off, when Feuilly suddenly wrapped an arm around her shoulders, careful not to get charcoal stains on her uniform.

"Catch you later, kid," he murmured, dropping a kiss on her forehead. "Remember me like this, okay?"

Éponine was caught off-guard by the pain. It snagged at her heart like a hooked needle; it stole the breath from her lungs. She didn't want to see Feuilly cured, didn't want those busy eyes to take on that emotionless glaze, didn't want those nimble fingers going through mechanical factory motions instead of spilling life onto canvas.

But what could she do? The Book of Shhh said that art was dangerous if not contained— that it was one of the gateways to the deliria, along with music and books not approved by the culture committee. There was even talk of outlawing it altogether. Feuilly was at greater risk than most people, but, thankfully, not for long.

Éponine left the Place Saint-Michel with the koi drawing clutched to her chest. She didn't look back.

* * *

Sirens rang in the dawn. Éponine had barely set foot outside her house, energized for the long walk to school by a light breakfast and a cold shower, when a high, thin clamor pierced the air. Éponine's heart rate sped up as the keening wail of the alerts reverberated throughout the streets.

Someone had gotten past the fences. Someone had escaped— again.

A crowd was gathered at the Place Saint-Michel by the time Éponine got there, held at bay by stern-faced guardians clothed in dark blue. People were whispering and pointing at something up ahead; Éponine fought her way to the front of the throng to see what all the commotion was about.

"Shit," she said out loud, frozen to the spot by the sight in front of her.

The little row of shop buildings, including the Musain, had been vandalized. Walls, windows, and doors were covered in paint, each panel forming one section of the most exquisite mural Éponine had ever seen.

Against a black background, a child who bore an eerie resemblance to Cosette— or, at least, to how Cosette had looked when she was younger— held a human heart in her hands as she rose from an ocean of fire. Red, black, gold, blue, and white— all of these colors colliding, rising in the bloodstream. Anger radiated from every line; it was the kind of painting that you could feel in your gut. Or maybe that was only the way Éponine saw it, having lived in glass for seventeen years, having gone her whole existence without seeing red so close to black on a canvas of walls.

Her gaze shifted downwards, to the point where the child's dress met the swirling flames. There were words in the fire, thick and shadow-tipped, and it was their message, more so than the scandal of the location or the brightness of colors, that was causing such a stir.

_VIVE LA RÉVOLUTION, _screamed the walls.

Long live the revolution.

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	3. Wax and Vanity

**Notes: **I apologize for taking so long to update! I've been so busy with school and other things. Fortunately, it's my summer break now, so I hope I'll be able to devote more time to this fic. Enjoy the new chapter! Feedback would be very much appreciated.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

**Wax and Vanity**

* * *

School for the rest of the week was a tense affair. Whispers of the mysterious rebellion sparked through the student body like an undercurrent— like the crackle of electricity along the barbed wire on the fences that kept out the Invalids but didn't seem to be doing such a good job of keeping people _inside _Paris.

The graffiti in the Place Saint-Michel was gone, painted over on the very same day that it was discovered. However, the mural remained seared in Éponine's mind— she knew those wild strokes, that adeptness at chiaroscuro. It had to have been Feuilly. The government was highly secretive on the matter, but she had a sneaking suspicion that the street artist followed in Combeferre and Courfeyrac's footsteps, leaving the rest of the city to pay for his crime: a curfew pushed forward to nine in the evening, the legitimization of the Anti-Art Bill, and a strict adherence to dress code in all schools and workplaces. The teachers treated this latest breakout as an affront to their own authority, cracking down on even the slightest misdemeanors and issuing detentions like they were going out of style.

On Friday morning, Enjolras was dragged out of class by Headmistress Huchloup. He returned in the afternoon sporting a neat haircut, a properly-assembled uniform, and a grim expression. Éponine quickly looked away when he entered the lecture room and took his seat, but she couldn't stop herself from glancing at him from time to time— enough to notice the tightness in his jaw and the way his fists sporadically clenched and unclenched.

Cosette, on the other hand, seemed to thrive under this new regime. More accurately, it was as if a flame had been kindled inside her, growing in heat and brightness with every classmate sent to detention and every line quoted from the Book of Shhh. She had always been a quiet girl, but now it was the quiet of a time bomb, waiting to explode.

Things finally came to a head on Sunday. Éponine went to Cosette's house for brunch, and, afterwards, the two girls cloistered themselves in Cosette's bedroom, listening to the soothing, tepid music that the radio had announced as the culture committee's Pick of the Week— although, personally, Éponine couldn't understand what made it so different from last week's pick, or that of the week before. Most of the approved songs were instrumental, glass-like, and unobtrusive; the few with vocals had lyrics lifted entirely from the Book of Shhh, or common nursery rhymes and folktales.

The unapproved songs— the _illegal _songs— were a different matter entirely. Cosette had managed to download several tracks from a file-sharing site before its webmaster, Bahorel, was apprehended by the government. From listening to those songs, Éponine had learned that it was possible for lyrics to wound you, for guitars to scream, and for rhythm to make you want to move.

Today, however, music was the farthest thing from her mind, because Cosette turned solemn opalescent eyes to her and asked, point-blank, "The child in the painting was me, wasn't it?"

"It _looked _like you," Éponine cautiously replied. "But it was probably just a coincidence."

Cosette shook her head. "I think my mother's trying to tell me something."

"Yes, because Fantine, who has been in the Crypts for the last ten years, somehow came into contact with Feuilly— or whoever it was who vandalized the Place Saint-Michel— and ordered them to paint a mural of you," Éponine deadpanned.

Cosette sighed with a trace of exasperation. "Well, of course it sounds ridiculous when you put it like that."

"I hardly think there's a way to put it that _wouldn't _make it sound ridiculous," snapped Éponine.

"How about this, then?" Cosette turned up the music, masking her voice with canned, emotionless sound, to prevent her stepfather from overhearing them in case he passed by the room. "My mother bought me watercolors when I was four years old. She encouraged me to paint. She knew what art could do. Red and black, she told me, was one of the most powerful combinations. It's striking; it makes your blood move. And now, ten years after the guardians took her away from me, a month before my cure, I see a painting on a wall. Red and black, blue and white. I see my eyes looking back at me. It's not a coincidence, Éponine. It's a _message."_

The other girl shrugged, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible. "Even if you're right, there's nothing we can do about it."

Unexpectedly, Cosette grinned.

* * *

Two girls raced their bicycles through October's pale shadows and jeweled haze. The city flew past the corner of Éponine's eyes, unfolding flat and soft. History books spoke of buildings so tall that they looked like they were touching the sky; Éponine imagined old Paris sometimes, all lights and color and metal before it was destroyed by the bombs, but, as of the moment, she was more preoccupied with fretting over Cosette's wild scheme. She couldn't deny, though, that the taste of adventure was in her mouth, heavy and electric on her tongue. Besides, as long as they stuck together, what was the worst that could happen?

They finally reached the last stretch of the Seine that was within city limits, and parked their bicycles under the stone bridge. Actually, the two bicycles belonged to Cosette— she'd been subtly hinting for years that Éponine was more than welcome to borrow one so that she wouldn't have to walk everywhere, but the other girl refused to accept what charity she didn't need— she and her family had lived at the mercy of other people for far too long.

"Well, here we are," Cosette announced. She was talking to Éponine, but her gaze was on the neat arrangement of square-shaped buildings a few paces away.

"You think they're just going to let us in?" Éponine asked doubtfully, biting her lip.

"Of course," Cosette replied with an aura of breezy, false bravado. "I'm her daughter, aren't I? I have visitation rights."

Slowly, tentatively, they approached the Crypts, only to freeze in their tracks as a stern, clear voice rang through the air, ordering them to halt. One of the security guards strode towards them, his somber navy uniform making him stand out against the bright autumn foliage. Éponine wasn't used to Enjolras' new haircut, so it took her a while to recognize him.

"Oh, shit," she muttered under her breath.

"What are you doing here?" Enjolras asked the girls, betraying nothing but a flicker of mild surprise.

"What are _you _doing here?" Éponine shot back.

"Helping my family make ends meet while we wait for my father's newly-established business to get off the ground," he replied. He then nodded at her, with an air of challenge. "Your turn."

Éponine and Cosette exchanged furtive glances, before the latter stepped forward and spoke up. "I want to see my mother. She's an inmate here."

"All visitation rights are temporarily suspended in light of the recent breakout," said Enjolras. "Come back next week."

Éponine narrowed her eyes, resenting the coldness of his tone. "Do you really have to be so— so _unfeeling?"_

He stared at her. "That's a very strange question to ask someone who's been cured."

"Cosette hasn't spoken to her mother in years!" Éponine burst out. "You told me that you can still discern right from wrong— what's so right about keeping children from seeing their parents?"

Enjolras cleared his throat. "When the parents' mental condition and susceptibility to amor deliria nervosa have made them a danger to society—"

Éponine held up a hand, putting an abrupt stop to the flow of words. "No, don't say that to me. Say that to _her." _She inclined her head in Cosette's direction. "Look her in the eyes when you say it. Look at her face."

The standoff lasted for several long moments. Enjolras resolutely met Éponine's glare, his own gaze tense and steady, yet measuring. His cropped hair made him seem older, accentuating the sharpness of his cheekbones and the sculpted line of his jaw, yet it also brought his eyes into focus— every nuance, every fleck of silver amidst the blue. Much to her bewilderment, Éponine saw something soften in those eyes, although maybe it was only a trick of the autumn light shifting over the trees.

"I still can't break the rules," Enjolras said at last, "but perhaps… if the visit is a punishment instead of a privilege?"

Cosette wrinkled her brow. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that—" Enjolras drew himself up straighter, which Éponine had not imagined possible; the boy could have written the handbook on good posture. "You, Cosette, will not be able to visit your mother. However, perhaps your friend has committed a minor offense for which she needs to be disciplined, and it is my prerogative as a cured individual to teach her a lesson, which would involve taking her to the Crypts to see what happens to those who violate our norms." His face was a study in careful blankness, and he refused to look directly at either one of the two girls. "And perhaps I would, by pure coincidence, take her to your mother's cell."

It wasn't the ideal plan, but Éponine had to admit that it was better than nothing. At least, this way, Cosette would be able to get information about Fantine from someone whom she trusted. However, if they got into trouble, if they were caught…

Cosette turned to Éponine, her eyes widened in silent question. _Would you— could you— take this risk? Would you be willing to do this for me? _Cosette, lost and in some ways lonelier than Éponine had ever been, Cosette who was the only true friend Éponine had ever known.

The dark-haired girl nodded, despite the uneasy flutter in her stomach. _Yeah, of course._

* * *

After Cosette went home to wait for news, Enjolras took Éponine by the arm and led her forward, his grip more firm than gentle. Éponine had not expected those slender white fingers to be so warm, but they curled around her bare skin like licks of fire and static.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked him. "Why are you helping us?"

"Helping you?" he echoed. "Yes, I suppose I am, at that. I see your defiance, and I believe it will lead you to no good in the end. I wasn't lying, earlier— you need to see what happens to those who question our government. Perhaps then you will behave yourself."

It wasn't until Enjolras said those words that Éponine realized how badly she'd been holding out for a different kind of answer— something more human, something that hinted at a heart buried deep beneath the ivory façade. "How generous of you," she grumbled.

He raised an eyebrow at her sullen tone. "I suggest that you acclimatize yourself to pragmatism. It will be your lot in life soon enough."

"Three months," she said, and to her own ears it sounded like a grace period because the thought welled up in her, fast and unbidden, that she didn't want to be like him or Maëlys or her parents or her teachers. She was afraid of what the future held in store, which was nothing. Only walls and duty.

"Three months," Enjolras repeated. He sounded odd for some reason, but Éponine couldn't figure out why.

They reached the facility's main entrance. With his free hand, Enjolras rapped sharply on the steel door. In response to his knock, a panel slid open, and a pair of brown eyes looked dully at him and Éponine.

"No visitors until next week," grunted the security guard behind the door.

"This one isn't here to visit, Brujon," Enjolras calmly replied. "I brought her in because she needs to be taught a lesson. She is my classmate, and I overheard her praising the graffiti in the Place Saint-Michel. She said it made her blood move."

A brief silence followed. Éponine held her breath, wondering if Brujon would buy it, but at last the panel slid shut and the door swung open.

"Come on," Enjolras murmured, tugging at her arm. Squaring her shoulders, Éponine walked into the Crypts.

* * *

"This is the lobby," Enjolras announced, rather unnecessarily in Éponine's opinion, because the room they had entered looked like every lobby in Paris, albeit with less potted plants and uninspired still-life frames. He led her to the bored-looking receptionist manning the front desk, a corpulent, middle-aged woman whose nametag read, _Magloire, J._

Enjolras propped an elbow on the counter and explained the situation to Madame Magloire, who shook her head ruefully.

"Nearly eighteen, are you?" she asked Éponine.

Éponine frowned. "How did you know?"

"It's common for your age," replied Madame Magloire. "Lots of kids get antsy right before their cure— get dragged in here by parents wanting to teach them a lesson." She looked at Enjolras. "Although I hardly suppose that you're her father."

Enjolras chuckled. "No. Just a concerned classmate."

"Any cell block in particular?"

Enjolras rubbed his chin, pretending to be deep in thought. "Perhaps Ward Six?"

Madame Magloire smirked. "Not pulling any punches, are you?" She typed something on her computer, then handed the two teenagers green clearance passes, laminated and attached to lengths of thick blue string. "Unfortunately, solitary confinement is off-limits, but you can take her to Five. It's on the same floor."

"Why is Six off-limits?" asked Enjolras as he slipped the pass around his neck.

The receptionist shrugged. "It didn't use to be, but they changed the policy last year. I don't know why."

"I guess we'll have to make do," said Enjolras. "Thank you, Madame."

Madame Magloire inclined her head. "Don't worry about it, dear," she told Éponine. "Whatever you're feeling right now— whatever doubt is in your mind— it will pass. It always does." She smiled reassuringly. "One look at those cells will straighten you out. You'll see."

* * *

Enjolras and Éponine took the elevator to the third floor, which held Wards Five and Six. Éponine opened her mouth to wonder aloud about the policy change, as Madame Magloire had called it, but Enjolras glanced pointedly at somewhere to his left. She followed his gaze and spotted a security camera perched above the doors. If the elevator was being watched, it stood to reason that it would be bugged as well.

_I'm actually in the Crypts, _Éponine mused, rubbing her upper arms to dispel the patches of goose-bumps that had blossomed on her skin. This mysterious building was the source of childhood nightmares, the repository of playground fears. This was where they sent you if you were beyond salvation. This was where all the bad people went to die.

The elevator doors slid open, revealing a brightly-lit hallway that branched off into two opposite directions. The numbers _5 _and _6 _were painted on the dead-end wall, above arrows pointing left and right, respectively. Enjolras and Éponine stepped out of the elevator and made their way to the two guards standing at attention across from them.

"Remember, you only get one shot," Enjolras muttered, forcing Éponine's attention to the risky plan that they had concocted. "I can't help you once I set things in motion. You have six minutes to reach Fantine's cell and speak with her."

"Relax," Éponine drawled. "It's not like I haven't done this before."

"Perhaps you should be more serious."

"Perhaps you should remove the stick up your ass."

"Bold words from someone who needs a favor," he remarked.

"This isn't a favor," she pointed out. "This is a _lesson, _as you have so abundantly made clear."

They reached the guards, who inspected their clearance passes and then patted them down for any contraband items. Éponine submitted to the perfunctory gestures of the male hands prodding at her scant curves and sharp corners; the three-pronged scar behind the guard's ear ensured that his actions were free of malice. His name tag read _Champmathieu, H., _while his partner was _Brevet, N._

"Before we proceed, I need to use the facilities," Enjolras announced.

"You take them," Brevet ordered Champmathieu, who grunted and led Enjolras and Éponine to the bathroom, which was located by the closed doors of Ward Five.

Enjolras entered the bathroom, leaving Éponine standing outside with Champmathieu, while Brevet maintained his distance further down the hall. As she waited for Enjolras to carry out the next stage of the plan, Éponine became conscious of a muffled, grating noise that seemed to be coming from inside Ward Five.

Enjolras had warned her to stay as quiet as possible, but Éponine's natural curiosity finally got the best of her. "What's that sound?" she asked Champmathieu.

"The inmates," he replied in an unperturbed monotone. "It's a circus in there. They don't understand that this is for their own good— for everyone's own good."

_How can pain be for the greater good? _Éponine wanted to argue, with the spark of mutiny that had been rearing its ugly, unwelcome head all too often these days, but, at that exact moment, all the lights went off.

* * *

It was the signal that she had been waiting for. She broke into a run, hurling her body forward through the darkness, arms stretched out in front of her until her hands slammed into the doors of Ward Six, which she quickly shoved open with all of her strength.

First, there were the screams.

They battered her ears from both sides of the long, narrow hallway. The prisoners in their cells were disembodied voices in the dark, sobbing, yelling at the top of their lungs. Nonsensical phrases, names— the words nipped at her heels as she ran, the air reverberating with the sorrow of them, the anger, the despair. Yet, for Éponine, there was freedom in this sound. It was emotion, pure and simple, filling her lungs until she wanted to scream along. There was pain here, but also defiance. This rawness was what it meant to be uncured.

She collided into the wall and turned left. The emergency lights flickered into life, their faint yellow glow illuminating the numbers on the doors. She stopped in front of Cell 612, which, according to Cosette, was where Fantine was confined.

Éponine crouched to the floor and pushed open the slot through which the food tray was delivered. "Fantine!" she called, wondering if the woman could even hear her over the ruckus of the other inmates. "Fantine! I'm a friend of Cosette's." She rapped urgently on the door. "Please, talk to me!"

There was no response. In fact, there seemed to be no signs of life coming from inside the cell. The main lights flickered back on, flooding the corridors and cells with brightness. She was out of time.

Frowning, Éponine stood up and peered through the grilles. What she saw made her gasp aloud.

The grilles offered only a limited view of the room, but Cosette's name had been scribbled on the walls, over and over again, scratched into the stone by something sharp. The window overlooking the grounds had been shattered.

Now Éponine knew why no one was allowed to visit the solitary confinement ward.

Fantine was gone. Fantine had escaped from the Crypts.

Éponine heard footsteps from up ahead, along with three angry male voices. She stepped away from Cell 612, took a deep breath, and couched her facial expression into a picture of bewildered innocence.

"Oh, thank goodness!" she cried, running to Enjolras, Brevet, and Champmathieu as soon as they turned the corner. "I panicked when the lights went out. I just ran for it. I don't know what came over me!"

* * *

"Will you get into trouble?" Éponine asked Enjolras later, after they had been unceremoniously kicked out of the building. They were walking back to the suburbs, the bicycle between them as Éponine pushed it forward.

Enjolras smiled thinly. "I will possibly be reprimanded, but the security cameras in the hallway take a while to boot up after power is restored. No one saw you hanging around Fantine's cell. So, all in all, I'm optimistic."

"How _did _you cut the power, anyway?"

"You have the city's poor postwar infrastructure to thank for that," he replied. "There are two showers in the bathroom. If you turn on the water heaters and all the hand dryers at the same time, it overloads the circuits."

Éponine snorted. She'd never expected the electrical shortage to work in her favor, for once.

"Were you able to speak with Cosette's mother?" Enjolras asked.

She considered telling him the truth, but the authorities obviously didn't want anyone to know that Fantine had broken out— it would reflect badly on them. There was no guessing what someone like Enjolras would do if armed with such dangerous information. "She was unresponsive," Éponine said at last. It wasn't a lie— not exactly, anyway.

Enjolras clucked his tongue sympathetically. "Yes, that happens sometimes. People go crazy inside."

She raised an eyebrow. "You don't think it's the deliria that makes them crazy?"

He shrugged. "I think it's the walls."

It was a strange answer. It could be interpreted in so many ways. Éponine didn't know what to do with it, and so she let it go. "You don't have to walk me all the way to my house, you know," she said, changing the subject.

"I don't mind," he said. "I like exploring Paris. It's very different from where I grew up."

"Why did your family move here, anyway?"

"My father's bakery wasn't doing so well. He thought that Parisians would be more receptive to his fancy crème brûlée croissants."

"And are we?"

"Maybe you should find out for yourself. I can give you a discount."

Éponine groaned. "Advertising your family business to a girl who's in your debt— how classy."

"It was my duty to show you what happens if you don't conform," Enjolras reminded her. "The advertising is just a bonus."

"The cherry on top?" she quipped. "The crème brûlée on the croissant?"

"My father's croissants have the crème brûlée baked _inside_. That's what makes them so special."

She laughed. She liked this new side of him— charming, boyish, and lighthearted. It was enough to make her lower her guard, even just for a little bit.

Enjolras' steps slowed as they coasted up a hill. He pointed at somewhere in the distance. "Is that where the Eiffel Tower used to be?"

"Looks about right," said Éponine, superimposing the grainy pictures in her schoolbooks over the flat skyline. "They say you could see it everywhere you went, in the time before."

"Before the war," he mused. "Before the bombs. We lost so much, didn't we?"

"There's no use living in the past."

"But the past made us what we are today." He tapped the scar behind his ear. "The past is the reason for this."

"Do you like it?" she asked. "Being cured?"

"It gives me control," he solemnly replied. "Order, stability— I couldn't ask for anything more." He stopped walking and turned to her with a crooked smile. "Although sometimes I do wonder what it would have been like to fall in love."

She grimaced. He called it love, not deliria. Such a dirty word. "Lucky for you, you'll never have to find out."

"Yeah. Lucky."

The words sounded like a sigh. The look on his face was distant, almost melancholic, as he gazed out at the ghosts of towers that were no longer there. His eyes were dark blue in the autumn light.

Éponine was suddenly afraid of something, her heartbeat hollow, her stomach queasy. She tightened her grip on the bicycle's handlebars. "You know what, I think I'll drop by Cosette's place before going home," she told him. "I'll see you tomorrow at school."

Enjolras shrugged. "If that's what you want. Just don't break curfew."

"And here I thought you told Madame Magloire that you weren't my father," she snapped, strangely annoyed by his lack of protest. What was _wrong _with her? Biting her lip, she began walking down the hill.

"Éponine."

She looked at him over her shoulder and waited.

"I had fun," he admitted. "Breaking the rules with you today— it was pretty cool."

She snickered. "Yeah, let's do it again sometime."

Although she tried to fight it, she was still grinning when she got on the bicycle and started pedaling to Cosette's house.

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	4. Clouds in My Eyes

**Notes: **As always, thanks for the comments and continued support. I'm going out of town with friends for Holy Week vacation, but I'll be bringing my notebook. Let's keep our fingers crossed that I can update as soon as I come back! All your reviews make me smile, although I can neither confirm nor deny your theories at this point in time. Where would the fun be in that, right? :) I am also open to suggestions as to what you guys would like to see from the characters or the story itself, so do keep the lovely feedback coming. And now, without further ado, here's the latest installment!

* * *

**Chapter Four**

**Clouds in My Eyes**

* * *

Éponine waited for the meltdown, which never came. As a matter of fact, Cosette seemed unperturbed that her mother had broken out of prison.

"What if…" Éponine started to say, and then stopped. What if Fantine hadn't managed to escape into the Wilds, what if the guards had gunned her down?

Cosette didn't smile, but she bared her teeth, displaying in that moment a hint of Éponine's propensity for viciousness. "Wherever she is now, it's better than here."

On Wednesday, two days after she went in for evaluation and the day her results were supposed to arrive in the mail, Cosette didn't come to class. Éponine wondered whom her friend had been matched with, if the prospect was so distressing that it had warranted a sick leave, but she also had problems of her own— namely, she had forgotten to pack her lunch.

As soon as the bell rang, Éponine headed straight for the glade at the edge of the schoolyard, thinking that she might as well spend the hour-long break sleeping away the hunger gnawing at her stomach. She sat down by the stream, resting her back against a tree trunk and sullenly watching light play on the water.

A twig snapped, not by accident, but in the careful, calculated manner of someone announcing their presence. Éponine's gaze shifted to Enjolras, all winter white and pale gold amidst the scarlet fumes of autumn. As he was wont to do when the teachers weren't looking, he'd taken off his blazer and rolled up his shirtsleeves.

He indicated the patch of ground in front of her. "May I?"

"If you like," she replied. They had been on civil terms ever since last Sunday's adventure. "But shouldn't you be holding court right about now?"

"Kings hold court. Not me." Brittle leaves crunched beneath his legs as he sat down. He dropped his schoolbag beside him and loosened his black tie, heaving an almost palpable sigh of relief as the knotted fabric unraveled between his slim fingers.

Éponine smirked. It had become a source of endless amusement, bearing witness to Enjolras' petty, compulsive rebellion against the uniform. "Yeah, I don't think kings follow their unsuspecting classmates around, either."

Enjolras responded with a thin smile of his own. "I merely noticed that your partner-in-crime is absent today. I figured you would be lonely."

"Oh, please. What would _you _know of loneliness?"

"I remember it."

She tensed. "Meaning?"

"Meaning I underwent the procedure only a few days before the government approved my family's petition to move to Paris," he said evenly, "so my time as an uncured individual is still fresh in my mind. Meaning, there is a part of me that understands the turmoil you and the rest of our classmates are going through. And I'd like to help, in any way that I can."

"Because spouting anti-DFF rhetoric and sneaking a classmate into an off-limits section of the Crypts is _so _helpful," Éponine deadpanned.

Enjolras shot her a chiding look. "I have already explained my reasons for what transpired last Sunday. As for the DFF, well, I can't say that I agree with them. Their fundamentalism and their influence on Louis-Philippe do more harm than good. Emotion is dangerous— that is a fact. However, it is even _more _dangerous when improperly managed."

"So you believe in the cure," she muttered, "but you don't believe in the way it's being implemented."

He was quiet for a while, and then he asked, softly and searchingly, "Do _you _believe in the cure, Éponine?"

_Of course I do, _she wanted to say. _I've believed my whole life. _She needed to be safe. She needed to—

"_Understand," _Combeferre had told her before he fled. _"When it happens to you, you'll understand."_

Éponine thought of Combeferre and Courfeyrac and Feuilly and wherever they were now, of Cosette's name carved into the walls by Fantine's desperate hands, and of how Enjolras' presence could sometimes thrill and terrify her all at once. Were all these things related, was there something that she was missing, was there something that she would never find after the procedure…?

Her stomach growled.

Enjolras' eyes widened in surprise. Éponine forced a laugh. "I guess my lunch didn't agree with me."

"You didn't have lunch," he declared in a tone that left no room for argument. He opened his schoolbag and dug out a plastic-wrapped sandwich that had been squished between his books, egg salad filling oozing from the sides. He handed it to her with the stern air of someone who wasn't going to take no for an answer.

She raised an eyebrow. "And what are _you _going to eat, pray tell?"

Enjolras reached into his bag once more, and, a few seconds later, waved a granola bar in front of her face. Éponine huffed, but they managed to eat their respective lunches in companionable silence, broken only by the faint rush of the stream and the distant thrills of birdsong. She studied him from the corners of her eyes, noting the flutter of golden lashes against the tops of high cheekbones whenever he blinked and the fastidious, efficient movements of his mouth as he chewed on the granola bar. His hair stuck up in various wayward directions, as if actively defying the constraints of its neat cut. There was, Éponine realized, a streak of defiance in Enjolras that could not be tamed even by the cure. It scared her, but in its own strange way it also gave her hope that some part of her would still remain after the operation.

But which part? What of her was good enough to keep, rude and neurotic and insecure and impulsive girl that she was?

And, because she was looking at him, she also caught the way he looked at her from time to time— detached yet lingering glances, his blue eyes solemn and shaded in this soft place of light and leaves and water. She fought the impulse to pat down her own messy hair, to tug at the pleated black skirt that was too short because her uniform was secondhand. Her pride would not allow her to correct her appearance under his scrutiny, although his nearness made her wish that she had Cosette's quiet prettiness or Musichetta's sophisticated charm.

_What do you care? What does _he _care? _she argued with herself. _He's past the point of being attracted to anyone. _The capacity to appreciate beauty was one of the precursors to the deliria; in the old tales, angels fell because they were so entranced by the splendor of the sun that they tried to come near it, and the heat burned their skin and melted their wings. A host of lovesick angels, crashing into the sea…

Done with his scant meal, Enjolras crumpled the empty wrapper before tucking it into his bag. "Why did Cosette wait so long to visit the Crypts?"

"I've never asked." There were some things you just knew, though. It would have hurt too much. It would have been better to forget— until the past caught up, until the unanswered questions rattled on the locks that had held them all these years. Until a girl in a painting looked like a child from long ago. "There wouldn't have been much point, I guess."

"Then why now? What made her change her mind?"

"Nerves," Éponine was good at lying. She could take skeins of half-truths and spin them into something believable. "Cosette was evaluated by the matching committee this Monday. It's a milestone in everyone's life. Maybe she needed her mother."

Understanding smoothed the wrinkles in Enjolras' pale brow. "I was supposed to take the test in Marseille, but, as you know, we moved. I was evaluated practically the instant we arrived in Paris," he told her. "When is your evaluation?"

"Saturday."

"Excited?"

Éponine shrugged. "I just hope I end up with a good guy."

"But that's the point, isn't it?" He smirked. "After the cure, we are all good guys."

"Some better than others," she quipped dryly, shooting him a pointed look.

"I'll have you know, I'm an _excellent _guy—"

The bell rang. She found herself wishing that it hadn't. He got to his feet and extended a hand to help her up. She stared at him as he towered over her, with his messy hair and disheveled uniform, silhouetted against autumn leaves and silver-blue sky. The sun hovered above his shoulder and she had to squint, and for a moment it looked as if those elegant outstretched fingers were beckoning her to the light itself.

"Come on," Enjolras murmured.

Éponine took his hand and he pulled her up and, for a fleeting moment, it felt like soaring. Like falling into the sky.

* * *

Cosette was in the lecture room when Éponine filed inside. Even a distressing result couldn't make someone so conscientious take the entire day off. Shouldering her classmates out of the way, Éponine hurried over to the blonde, who shot her a wan smile, dark bags under her opalescent eyes.

"Who is it?" Éponine asked without preamble. "Whom did you get matched with?"

"Someone I don't know," Cosette replied in a small voice. "His name is Marius Pontmercy. He goes to Saint Anthelm's, across town."

Éponine squeezed the other girl's shoulder in sympathy. It was a common occurrence, having to marry a stranger, but everyone usually held out for a classmate or a neighbor or a friend— at least, until they were cured. Then it didn't matter anymore. "It's going to be okay."

"Someday, yes," Cosette mumbled. Her hands twisted together, as if to quell some growing panic.

* * *

After dismissal, the two girls rushed off to the school's computer room to look up Cosette's match on Facebook. Enjolras, Joly, Bossuet, Jehan, and Grantaire were already there, huddled around one of the desks. They glanced furtively at Éponine and Cosette, although Jehan continued typing.

"Hey, ladies," drawled Grantaire. "What brings you here?"

"Stuff," Éponine nonchalantly replied as she and Cosette sat at the desk farthest from the boys. "You?"

"Stuff," Grantaire echoed, with a mischievous wink.

Cosette logged into Facebook and keyed _Marius Pontmercy_ into the search bar. There was a short pause while the server ran various security checks to ensure that the name wasn't on any of the banned lists, and then…

"Hey," Éponine said brightly as the page loaded, "he's not bad-looking." The boy in the profile picture was grinning shyly at the camera, his carroty hair and green eyes clashing with the dark blue suit and red tie of Saint Anthelm's Institute. She perused the short blurb. "Ooh, he wants to be a lawyer. You could do much worse."

Cosette giggled. "He has freckles."

A chat-box popped up, startling the two girls. An animated cat waved its cartoonish paw at Cosette. It had been sent by Marius.

Quick as a flash, Cosette logged out and exited the browser. Chair legs scraped across the floor as she pushed away from the desk, a hand over her heart.

Éponine started laughing.

"Oh, don't do that," Cosette begged, her pale cheeks flushing scarlet. "I panicked, okay?"

"You're such a wuss," Éponine teased, shoulders shaking. Admittedly, she was more relieved than amused, because this Marius Pontmercy, whoever he was, seemed nice, and that meant Cosette would have a decent life ahead of her.

Overcome by a sudden rush of affection, Éponine threw her arms around her best and only friend, who returned the hug with equal fervor. She remembered the question she had asked herself in the glade, about what part of her was worth keeping after the cure, and the answer shone clearly in her mind's eye.

_Everything, _Éponine thought distantly, her cheek pressed against Cosette's neck. _I want to keep everything._

A loud noise blared from the speakers of the other occupied workstation across the room. It took Éponine a while to register the heavy drumbeats and the thudding bass-line as a piece of illegal music. Joly, Bossuet, Jehan, and Grantaire cheered, trading high-fives with one another, while Enjolras sat back, looking strangely pleased.

Éponine disentangled herself from Cosette. The latter had gone pale; the fact that she had just gotten matched meant that she now had more to lose. And if a teacher were to come in, if they were caught in the same room where illegal music was being played—

Guitars wailed as Éponine stalked towards the boys. Before anyone could stop her, she reached over and jabbed at the power button on the speakers, ushering in an abrupt silence.

"Have you all gone _insane?" _she railed at her bemused classmates. "What the hell could have possessed you to listen to _that _in a public place? To listen to that at _all?"_

"But, Éponine," Joly started to protest, his eyes gleaming with excitement, "it's a new upload from Bahorel. It means that he's not dead, cured, or in the Crypts! He's out there somewhere—"

"I don't give a fuck!" she interrupted him furiously. "Cosette and I have nothing to do with this, but you jeopardized our own safeties!" She was shaking. How could they be so thoughtless about the consequences of their actions? She jabbed an angry finger at Enjolras' chest, because she knew— she just _knew—_ that he had put the other boys up to this. "Whatever game you're playing at, it's got to stop, do you understand? Not all of us can afford to break the rules! You're cured, you should know better!" Her eyes suddenly widened. Her tongue rattled off the words of its own volition. "Unless you're—"

Enjolras leapt to his feet and grabbed Éponine's wrist, dragging her out of the computer room. The hallway was silent and deserted. Her heart hammered violently against her ribcage, but the rest of her body seemed to have been suspended in slow, liquid amber. She tore away from his grasp and widened the distance between them until her back hit the wall.

"You're not cured, are you?" she whispered. "The procedure didn't work on you. You're an…" She trailed off, not wanting to complete the thought, the death sentence.

His lip curled. His sharp face appeared oddly cruel in the lazy afternoon light. "I assure you, I am not an Invalid," he said in a terse, low voice. "I have the registration papers to prove it, as well as the mark of the procedure."

Éponine's brow furrowed. "Then why are you egging R and the others on?"

"Because it's the only way to placate them," Enjolras replied with maddening calm. "You don't talk to them on a regular basis, Éponine. You can't possibly have any idea how restless they are. How discontented. It's been eating them from the inside, ever since those two other boys escaped. I told you I wanted to help, didn't I?"

"You're not _helping," _she insisted. "You're putting them in danger. You're putting _everyone _in danger. Stop it, Enjolras. Just— just stop it."

"My methods are unorthodox," he admitted, "but what are a few risks now, compared to the big picture? What do you think is going to happen when their eighteenth birthdays draw nearer? Combeferre and Courfeyrac started something when they left. Would you prefer that our classmates get rebelliousness out of their systems while there's still time, or that the guardians shoot them when they try to climb over the walls?"

She glared at him, mutinous and resentful. He darted a quick glance around the hallway to make sure that they were still alone, and then he continued speaking, much more quietly. "As I said, I still remember what it was like. The cure hasn't taken that from me yet. The orderlies had to drag me to the operating room, did you know that? I managed to get in a few punches before they finally strapped me down." He smiled fleetingly at his smooth knuckles, as if seeing the ghosts of past bruises. "I believe that I would have handled it better, had I been given more time, had I had been allowed a little more freedom in the days leading up to the procedure. It's the same reason I helped you and Cosette last Sunday. I want to give you— _all_ of you— the chances that I never took."

"So give me the chance," said Éponine, "to make it through."

She went back to the room to fetch Cosette, leaving Enjolras alone in the hallway, staring after her.

* * *

The meltdown finally occurred on Friday night. Éponine was sleeping over at Cosette's place, because it was closer to the testing facility and she couldn't afford to be late for her evaluation. Curfew found the girls holed up in Cosette's room, with Éponine stretched out on the queen-sized mattress while Cosette sat at her desk, typing away on her laptop.

Squinting at the monitor, Éponine recognized the blue-and-white color scheme of Facebook. "Are you chatting with Marius?"

Cosette ducked her head, but her fingers resolutely continued to fly over the keyboard. "The matching committee has scheduled our preliminary meeting for next week. He's as nervous as I am. It's kind of sweet."

"Preliminary meeting," repeated Éponine. "That sounds so cold."

"Doesn't it?" Cosette murmured. "Afterwards, I won't be seeing him again until we're cured. His procedure's taking place just a few days before mine."

"At least they let us meet our matches before settling on a wedding date," Éponine mused out loud. "Gives us a chance to prepare ourselves for… whatever. Or to put in a plea for reevaluation. So many things can go wrong." She sat up in bed as a thought occurred to her. "What if he's infected?" It wouldn't be the first time the matching process was accelerated at the request of affluent families who had something to hide.

Cosette snorted. "Well, I can hardly ask him that, can I?" The security committee monitored all correspondence— e-mails, chat-logs, letters, phone calls, text messages. An ill-advised turn of phrase, even to someone you trusted, could have the guardians pounding at your door within hours.

"Ask him if he has any tattoos," Éponine suggested.

"Oh, my God."

They continued in this vein for a while, Cosette's mirth increasing as Éponine's ideas for conversational topics got more and more ridiculous. Finally, Éponine crowed, "Ask him how big his—"

Cosette shrieked and launched herself at Éponine, clapping a hand over the other girl's mouth even though she herself was overcome by scandalized laughter. However, the hilarity soon subsided, turned into something more subdued as Cosette gazed down at the floor, biting her lip.

"Hey." Éponine nudged her friend. "What's wrong?"

"Marius is great," said Cosette. "I feel comfortable talking to him, even though we haven't met in person yet. I can't ask for anything more, but…" Her blue-green eyes watered; she hastily blinked, causing a few tears to trickle down her cheek. "I just wish I could tell Maman about him."

Éponine was surprised by how much she understood. Unlike Cosette, she had never experienced a mother's love before it was brutally ripped away, but sometimes she simply just yearned for her own mother's presence, no matter how cold and incapable of comfort— how _cured—_ Madame Thénardier was. When she told Enjolras that girls needed their mothers, he had seemed to empathize, but could he, really? Did boys feel the same way about the women who raised them, all the annoyance, the affection, the grief? Maybe it was different for girls.

There were so many things about the world that Éponine didn't know. And there was no one to ask.

"She _left _me," Cosette whimpered, pitiful and terrified and seventeen years old. "Why did she go— why didn't she take me with her—?"

"It would have been too dangerous, you know that," Éponine said softly, rubbing Cosette's back in a desperate attempt to soothe. "Wherever Fantine is now, she thought of you until the very end. She wrote your name on the walls. That _has _to be enough, Cosette. You have to make it _be _enough."

Even as she spoke, the words sounded hollow to her own ears. Some things were easier said than done, but sometimes there was nothing left to be done but say them.

* * *

On the damp, silvery morning of Éponine's evaluation, Monsieur Fauchelevent and Cosette dropped her off at the testing facility in their little yellow car, with the gray-haired man promising that he'd take the girls out for ice cream afterwards.

Ice cream. Hah. Monsieur Fauchelevent's wife passed away before they could have children of their own; he parented like he'd once read a manual on how to raise a seven-year-old and had stuck to it ever since then.

_Maybe they do give us a manual for raising kids, _Éponine mused to herself as she joined the queue of teenagers outside the building, waiting for their turn to be evaluated. There were rules for everything, after all.

"_Not rules," _someone had scoffed, long ago. _"Call them 'forcefully-applied guidelines.'" _Had it been Courfeyrac who said that? Yes, perhaps, with the chestnut-brown curls falling into those bright eyes. Hindsight was a funny thing; looking back, Éponine couldn't figure out why she'd been so surprised when he and Combeferre fled.

She scanned the crowd, spotting familiar faces here and there. Her schoolmates were either too nervous or too excited to pay much attention to her. It was a nice break from the stares and whispers. Some kids were gazing down at their shoes or into space, while others conversed in tones that ranged from forcibly calm to forcibly upbeat. Éponine grimaced; it was difficult to hate people who tormented you on a semi-regular basis when you were reminded that they were, in fact, people. Everyone was going through the same thing right now, whether they liked it or not. There was no more room for childhood grievances. The future was about to start.

* * *

When her turn came up, Éponine filed through the glass doors of the testing facility along with nineteen others. They were ushered down the hallway by a silent contingent of stern-faced men in white, and led to a windowless room that was also all-white. Like all other government organizations, the matching committee wasn't big on creative interior design.

Éponine found a seat in the middle row. A few of her classmates shot her tentative smiles, to which she responded with cool, impassive glances. _Oh, so we're all in this together now, are we? _she thought sourly. _Come Monday, you'll all be snickering behind my back again, as if nothing ever happened. As if you were never with me when we took a test that defined the rest of our lives. _

Sensible heels clacked against tile. A woman who appeared to be in her late thirties entered the room. Her blonde hair was in a tight, elegant bun, and she wore large cat's-eye glasses and a somber maroon suit that, nevertheless, popped amidst the white walls and white floors like a neatly-tailored puddle of blood. She was carrying a bundle of papers, held firmly to her chest.

"Good morning. I am Madame Baptistine Myriel, your proctor for today," she announced. "First, the rules— you will be given two hours to finish your personality test, and no more. You may raise your hand if you have a question, and I shall come to you. You may not talk to your fellow examinees. You may not eat or bring out your cell-phone. You are each allowed one bathroom break. Are we clear?" At the collective nod from all across the room, Madame Myriel began distributing the papers. "This is a simple personality test that will comprise one half of your evaluation. The other half will be the background files that we already have on each of you. So, to avoid confusion of any sort, write down your complete name, your complete date of birth, your complete home address, the complete name and address of your school, and your complete security number in the personal information section at the top of the page. During the test proper, answer the questions honestly and to the best of your ability. Remember, children— no retakes. This is it."

If Madame Myriel had been expecting hushed awe after her speech, she didn't get it. The air blossomed into a susurrus of rustling paper and uneasy murmurs. It took her a while to glare the entire room into silence.

Éponine filled out her personal data, making a face at the way her large, messy scrawl careened off the provided lines. She'd never learned how to hold a pen properly. It was rumored that your handwriting improved after you were cured, though.

_I guess I have _that _to look forward to._

She moved on to the questions. It was, without a doubt, the strangest test that she had ever taken. She had no idea what kind of screwy algorithm the matching committee used to decide who was compatible with whom, but she did as Madame Myriel instructed and answered them according to what felt true to her. There had to be at least _one _boy in Paris who would complement her admittedly bizarre way of thinking.

Some questions were multiple-choice.

**Select the object most appealing to you:**

**a) flower**

**b) apple**

**c) metal**

**d) notebook**

**You're in a cave and you look down. What do you see?**

**a) necklace**

**b) key**

**c) hat**

**d) river**

Others were fill-in-the-blanks.

**I want to _.**

**I need a _.**

**A fallen angel is _.**

Still others were questions that you had to answer in a sentence or two. Éponine had fun with these the most— for a given value of fun, anyway.

**What is the first thing you would take out of a burning building?**

That was easy. Herself, of course.

Éponine had just gotten to the last question when Madame Myriel declared that time was up. The brunette hurriedly encircled her answer— _Select your preferred constellation: a) Order and Virtue; b) The Death Throes of the Invalid; c) The Broken Heart; d) The Guillotine— _and passed her paper to the front. The room was eerily quiet as everyone wondered if they had just doomed themselves.

* * *

Ten minutes after Éponine shot off a text message to Cosette, the Fauchelevents' little yellow car reappeared on the curb. As promised, Monsieur Fauchelevent took the girls to an ice cream parlor, where he occupied himself with a newspaper while Éponine and Cosette compared their answers over hot fudge sundaes.

Monsieur Fauchelevent looked up from the business section only once, to remark that the test had been much less complicated back in his day.

Cosette wrinkled her nose. "That was a century ago, Papa."

Monsieur Fauchelevent smiled the calm, tight-lipped smile of the cured, before excusing himself to order coffee. Once he was gone, Cosette leaned over the table. "No class on Monday."

"Yeah, I know," said Éponine. "It's a public holiday— the anniversary of the first successful cure."

"Are you doing anything Sunday night?"

There was something about the conspiratorial tone of Cosette's voice that made a chill go down Éponine's spine. "No."

"Then it's settled." Cosette nodded briskly, and Éponine had been a fool to believe that her best friend's meltdown would confine itself to a few plaintive tears. "We're going to a party."

* * *

**To Be Continued**


End file.
